


Thunder

by Mary_Jane221B



Series: I Would Give You All of Me [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7581910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jane221B/pseuds/Mary_Jane221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time Mycroft kept Sherlock safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).



> For Crow because our friends keep us safe from harm X

If you asked Mycroft what the sound of Sherlock in the middle of the night was. You might have expected a deep sigh and some complaint about violin playing until the early hours of the morning or the overwhelming auditory experience of chemical explosions and experimentation.

You would not have expected for him to smile slightly, the tiny twitch of his lips and say;

“Sherlock as a child was as quiet as a mouse and with the light footfalls to match.”

***

Mycroft was home for the summer holidays, six weeks of hiding from the sunshine outside by reading his textbooks under the shade of the Holmes Estate’s apple orchard trees, stealing shortbread biscuits from Mrs Fowler and her kitchen staff and working on Sherlock’s summer science project of ‘worm houses’.

Mycroft enjoyed the summer holidays on principle, school was enjoyable and his friends were perfectly pleasant but he missed his brother. He missed playing at science experiments and pirates. Harrow did not look kindly on their student’s wearing eyepatches and climbing trees in their stockinged feet.

The one aspect of the summer holiday Mycroft was dreading occurred on the first evening of his second week at home. It started with a warm breeze at nine o’clock when Mycroft walked the three year old Sherlock through the vegetable garden completing a final check of the makeshift worm habitats. He was pretending not to hear Sherlock wishing his pets a pleasant night’s rest when he noticed the change in atmosphere; the quiet and the cooling of the air after the humid afternoon.

“’Lockie we need to go inside now. It’s time for bed.” Mycroft said.

“Ten more minutes Myc’ look Mr Oligo has been working the ground here. He’s a big worm now.” Sherlock said as he rearranged the small collection of damp leaves and thin twigs.

“I see ‘Lock but we should go inside before Mummy comes and gets us.”

Sherlock freezes his small fingers pressing down on the damp leaf between his fingers and pressing the dirt on its’ surface into his skin.

“Will she be cross?” Sherlock asked quietly. Mycroft reached out and squeezed his brother’s shoulder.

“Come come mon frère say good night to your friend. We have a new chapter of Treasure Island to read.”

“Okay Myc’” Sherlock replaced the leaf gently and stood. He took Mycroft’s hand while they walked back toward the house their wellington boots leaving imprints in the naked paths between vegetable beds. Mycroft looked up and watched as the light in his mother’s study turned off indicating she had taken note of their path.

It was three hours later that the first fork of light split the sky above The Manor. The explosion of noise came moments later and Mycroft pressed the palms of his hands firmly to his ears and prayed that it would be over soon.

The first Nanny Mycroft remembered told him thunder and lightning happened when God was mad with the world. Mycroft had never believed her, he had gone to his father come morning and asked for the science of storms and his father, in his own way attempting to be comforting, showed him diagrams and maps and explained how weather fronts moved.

Mycroft was not afraid of storms, not when he was safe within the great stone walls of his childhood home, but the noise cut straight through his sleep. As did what always happened next.

From the age of fourteen months Sherlock was terrified of storms. Their father’s method of scientific explanation which had worked so well for Mycroft fell on death ears with Sherlock. The Nannies who bounced him and fussed him just infuriated him further. But the quiet peacefulness of Mycroft’s room, the safety of climbing on top of his brother’s blankets and being held tightly in Mycroft’s arms kept him from crying out and waking their parents. Sherlock never cried through a storm when Mycroft was home because when Mycroft was home Sherlock felt safe.

The door creaked open during the break between explosive claps of thunder and there were the tiny footfalls Mycroft had been expecting. There were also the tiny exhalations of scared breath and the feeling of his thick duck down blankets shifting under tiny hands and feet scrambling across its surface.

Mycroft moved his hands and reached out to grip his baby brother under his arms. Sherlock croaked out a small cry when another blaze of light filled Mycroft’s bedroom. Mycroft pulled Sherlock up and into the circle of his arms and he let his little brother shake. Mycroft smoothed his curls and hushed nonsense at his fretful sobs until they fall away and Sherlock’s breathing returns to something near normal. He still won’t sleep Mycroft knows but it is where they start.

“It’s alright Sherlock. It’s just the weather. You’re not in danger.” Mycroft breathed softly.

“It’s so loud Myc.” The little boy sobbed, “Why is it always so loud?” and so Mycroft began his story.

Mycroft explained in the same way his father had about weather fronts and air pressure. He showed Sherlock the moisture on the outside of his water glass and how when two of the drops run into each other they get larger in the same way the moisture in the air did. Sherlock quietened but still wouldn’t sleep and neither would Mycroft. They lay awake and Mycroft combed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and hummed vague tunes from nursery rhymes he remembered Mummy singing him when he was much younger.

***

This method worked until Sherlock was five and Mycroft had just turned thirteen. Now a teenager Mycroft was much less likely to be in his bedroom when the first cracks of thunder sounded. But Sherlock had learnt early that when Mycroft was not in his bedroom he was in the library and that when he was in the library the safest place to be was in the chair Mycroft kept behind his desk, next to his own, just for Sherlock.

Sherlock still moved with stealthy light feet. He hid behind corners and statues so staff and their parents did not see him and send him back to bed before he reached the safety of Mycroft’s office.

“Sherlock?” The soft voice asked as he made his final approach watching his steps so he didn’t step on the damaged floor tile and ruin his excellent sneaking. There framed in the soft light of the library lamps was his brother and Sherlock grinned and ran, his small feet slapping against the cool marble tiles of the corridor reaching for Mycroft to pick him up. Mycroft did and turned them so Sherlock was also enveloped in the warm light and soft strains of Schubert’s Lullaby that filled the grand room.

“Don’t make me go back to bed Myc.” Sherlock begged quietly and before Mycroft could ask why not the gentle rumble of distant thunder overlaid the tender strands of the violin solo Mycroft had selected. Mycroft soothed his brother’s wayward curls as always and walked them back to his desk.

He set Sherlock in his lap and explained the work he had been sent home with this summer. He tried to explain the inner workings of the British government but as if on cue the thunder grew closer and Sherlock’s back grew tenser.

“I have an idea.” Mycroft said softly and his brother tore his eyes from contemplating the sky visible through the heavy curtains and smiled brightly. “It’s a story, a story of brave scientists and thrill seekers. These men and women travel the deserts and plains of the world in search of one thing. Take a guess who they are Lockie?”

“Pirates! Spacemen! Policemen!” Sherlock shouted and Mycroft laughed before hushing him.

“No Lock these people are Storm Chasers.” Mycroft voice framed the title in such a way that these people appeared mystical, magical, grand heroes of their time and Sherlock was enthralled. Mycroft wiled away the hours it took Sherlock to succumb to sleep weaving tales from what little he knew of storm chasers with grand exaggerations and on occasion down right fabrications but Sherlock soaked it up and all summer, rain or shine, Sherlock would demand stories about storm chasers or as Sherlock declared them, “They’re like the brand new pirates Myc!”.

***

Mycroft and Sherlock continued to meet in the library on the nights of storms until Mycroft was finished with academia and Sherlock started spending his Summer Holiday’s from school travelling with his parent’s when they demanded it and enjoying the freedom his brother having his own home brought him when they gave up and set their youngest son lose on London.

Without the necessity of hiding from his parent’s Sherlock merely roamed the halls of Mycroft’s London home with the sky decorated itself with light and thunder covered the non-existent noise of his footsteps. He would be aware of Mycroft and know his presence but not necessarily be actively seeking him out.

The first summer Sherlock spent with him while Mycroft was dating Phillip (a onetime conservative political hopeful) Sherlock took to hiding in the window seats with the curtains closed tight and spying on his brother’s love interest. The night of the summer’s first thunder storm Sherlock caught the man taking liberties with Mycroft’s then secretary Delia.

Delia screamed that he was a pervert when Sherlock burst out of the curtains and confronted the half-naked couple. But Sherlock was incensed because here was the man his Brother trusted most with his penis out and straining towards the overly manicured vagina of a Mycroft underling.

Mycroft came running and found his brother and his lover engaged in a poorly constructed fist fight and his half naked secretary. Mycroft decided two things that night: 1) don’t introduce his brother to any of his boyfriends again, and 2) make Sherlock learn a martial art because the boy could not throw a punch.

Thirteen minutes later they stood and watched Delia and Phillip depart in one of Mycroft’s overly polished cars; “Did you really have to hide behind the curtains Brother dear?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock just sniffed, his bloody nose still bleeding slightly, and shrugged. They stand in silence and Mycroft stared at the sky and declared. “I think a storm is coming.”

 

***

February twentieth and the sky above Mycroft’s home was deceptively still. The moon moved through the clouds at a slow pace and every few minutes the light would break through illuminating the dark garden framed by the French doors in his office and Mycroft would watch as the shadows of the pine trees grew longer and then vanished once more.

He rolled the high ball glass between his fingers and looked at nothing much as his memories flooded his senses.

**The smell of sweet dew on the blades of grass when he had run through the grounds to his brother half mad from drug withdrawal railing at the whirling storm over head.**

**Sherlock had taken aim with his fists but weakened by his months of cocaine the touch was nothing more than a tap. He collapsed onto Mycroft’s chest shouting at the thunder, screaming at the pain of his mind and the betrayal of his brother for taking his peace from him.**

**Mycroft begged, the flavour of blood on his lips from the bite he had delivered to himself to stop the tears from falling;**

**“’Lock please just try. Please for me. Just this once.”**

**Sherlock stopped fighting whether the cause was physical or emotional exhaustion was unclear but the result was Mycroft carrying him, his bare feet slipping in the developing mud of his grounds, back into the house.**

Away from the past Mycroft drained his glass and set it beside him. Lightning lightened the sky and he closed his eyes waiting for the rumble and crash of thunder that would shortly follow. Mina cried out when it arrived but it was not Mycroft’s job to comfort her. John maintained his role as father and primary care giver in a way his own parent’s never managed.

Mycroft opened the glass doors in front of him wide and breathed in the sharp cold air of February mixed with the distinct taste and sound of a thunderstorm at the very beginning of its cycle. The rumbling continues and Mycroft stood face up cast and counted the seconds between each burst of light and sound. He sat slowly on the low step and watched the sky dance in the way it did when this particular weather front occurred.

The knock when it arrived was surprising only when Mycroft took note of the hour and the fact that when the agent entered she was not alone. Mycroft welcomed his guest with a smile standing from his position he cast aside any momentary embarrassment at his appearance. If Molly Hooper wished to enter his home after midnight she could stand the sight of him without a jacket and waistcoat.

“Miss Hooper an unexpected pleasure so early in the morning. Can I be of some assistance?” Mycroft tried for friendly even as he cast his eyes over the trembling women, drenched to her bones, a thin coat slung over what looked to be pyjamas and slippers.

“Mr Holmes. I am sorry. I am so sorry.” Molly stuttered as her thin frame shook from shivers. Mycroft sent his agent in search of a towel and directed his guest to a seat in front of the fire while he closed the doors. She continued to whisper apologies as she fell into the seat.

“Now Miss Hooper, really you must stop apologising. I’m happy to offer you any aid I can and I am sure John would be as well. I can fetch him if you like.”

Molly shook her head and drew a small package out of her coat. She started sobbing in earnest as she offered him the brown envelope. A small patch of some seemingly black liquid had soaked through to the outer envelope, there is but one stamp; Serbia but what caught Mycroft’s eye when he truly observed was the writing.

The scratched imprecise scrawl; his name written in a handwriting he knows better than his own.

“Please. I’m so sorry. He asked me to deliver it. I don’t know what’s happening but I think he’s in trouble. Please Mr Holmes.” The girl begged and Mycroft looked blankly at her shaking form and felt his world tilt as he snatched the envelope out of her limp grip.

“Get out.” He demanded quietly.

Molly jumped as if he had screamed at her and in his mind he is. He is roaring at the pain in his head and the ferocious clawing agony of hope. He stopped paying her mind then, turning to rip the envelope open. Lightning filled the room with light and a scream from his niece, seemingly a vocalisation of his fear, filled his ears as he emptied the envelope’s contents over his desk and is finally faced with the truth.

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” he asked the storm rich air.


End file.
